


Dreams of Icarus

by MrProphet



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-23 00:10:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10708071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrProphet/pseuds/MrProphet





	Dreams of Icarus

In my mind, I still fly. Every night I take wing; every night I soar. Every morning I wake in tears.

I still remember, you see; I still remember what it felt like to spread my wings and take flight, because once I did just that. My body has no wings, it never had, but my mind was always capable of flight.

As a child, I watched the birds and the kites of children. I marvelled at what they could do.

As a youth, I studied insects under lenses. I marvelled at  _how_  they did it.

As a man, I studied animals that flew, inside and out. I no longer marvelled, instead I  _analysed_. Sometimes I miss that sense of wonder.

I spent years working out how I might fly, puzzling out matters of power-to-weight ratios, wingspans and lift; the balance of strength and lightness in different materials. So many things to consider; so many variables, all working together. If the wings are too small, they will not lift you; if they are too large, you can not beat them. If the frame is too solid it will be too heavy to get off the ground; too light and the materials will be too fragile to stand the strain.

The difficulty is balance, you understand; power and lightness. It was a problem which I struggled with to no avail. My nephew could have solved it, if I had given him the chance, but…

Jealousy is an ugly thing, my friend. Beware of it.

Anyway, the solutions eluded me for a long time. There were always so many other demands on my time. I had my son to raise and so many people wanting work done for them. Ironically, it was only when I was imprisoned that I found myself free to devote myself to my life’s work.

And I did it. I made wings, for myself and for my son, and we flew free of our prison like birds.

But he would not listen, could not show caution, and he died. My wings freed him, and then they killed him. I flew to safety and then I burned the accursed devices, as though by unmaking them I could reclaim the child whose life was the price of my pride.

As for my life… it had lost all meaning. Oh, I was still able to drum up enthusiasm for my work and there was a moment of satisfaction when the man who imprisoned us was killed, but nothing else mattered. And somehow, because nothing mattered to me, I forgot to do things: important things, like meeting new people, keeping myself clean and healthy, and even growing older.

Yes. I forgot to grow older; that’s why I am still alive after all this time. That’s why I am still alive to bring you a warning, Maestro. Do not let this dream – my dream – consume you.

If I were you, Leonardo, I’d stick to the painting.


End file.
